Write My Name Across the Sky

by Barbara O'Neal

She has a condition that makes it painful to hear people eat. I feel six years old, trying not to mind her sharpness, wishing she’d get the fuck over it already.

I know how much the ordinary dumb people of the world annoy me, so it’s hard to imagine how much worse it would be if you thought at the speed of light and everyone else thought at the speed of a tricycle.

It’s the thread of loneliness every motherless child feels, a cry at night that goes unanswered, a longing that just cannot be filled by anyone else.

I do check the bra to see if it will be comfortable if I have to wear it for a while. It’s not an underwire, so it should be all right, and the panties are simple briefs, so also comfortable. But they probably make you change into prison underwear, don’t they? I mean, I have no idea. Will I need socks?

It will be good for her to not be completely in control of her entire world for five minutes.”

“You have to stop yelling at me like that. It takes me days to get over it, and I think really hard about every single thing you say.”